Be with Me
by therunawaypen
Summary: John knew something was wrong when Sherlock wasn't at school, but he didn't know how wrong until he got a text that night.


John wasn't too worried when he didn't see Sherlock in History class. It certainly wasn't the first time his boyfriend had skipped classes because they were dull and the teachers were imbeciles (Sherlock's words, not John's).

John was slightly worried when Sherlock wasn't in Anatomy. Not because Sherlock didn't find that class dull, but because they were doing dissections that week, and Sherlock had gleefully worked on his own experiments. He wouldn't miss that. Not willingly.

John was very worried when he didn't get a single text from Sherlock that day. Even when Sherlock skipped an entire day of classes, John's phone would be filled with sarcastic and outrageous texts. And no matter how many texts John sent to the genius, there was no reply.

It wasn't until that evening, after John had had dinner and was getting ready for bed, that he finally got an answer.

_Mother and Father are dead. Mycroft had to come home in order to take custody of me. I didn't want to worry you._ –SH

It took John a few moments to piece together what Sherlock was saying. When it finally sunk in, he felt sick to his stomach. Everything about the text was wrong to John: the dry statement about Mr. and Mrs. Holmes being _dead_, that Mycroft was not Sherlock's guardian…the fact Sherlock had not wanted to worry John.

Which meant Sherlock needed him now more than ever.

_I'm on my way._ –JW

John barely had time to grab a jacket before he was taking his car keys and racing out to his Jeep, making a beeline for the Holmes house. It was during the drive that he tried to grasp everything. Sherlock's parents, who he had just seen last week when he was spending the night with Sherlock in his room, were _gone._ He'd never see them again, _Sherlock _would never see them again. It was just him and his brother now.

He shook his head as he pulled up to the front gate of the Holmes house. Now was not the time for him to be contemplating the fragility of human life, he was there for Sherlock.

The door was unlocked, meaning he was expected. But there was no classical music playing. Mrs. Holmes always had music playing in the house, even late into the night. The silence was eerie now.

"Hello John." John turned to see Mycroft sitting at the dining room table. There were legal papers strewn everywhere (at least John _thought_ they were legal papers). "Sherlock is in his room. I called your family to let them know you're staying the night."

John nodded. Mycroft's voice lacked its usual arrogant tone, it sounded…tired. In the course of a day, he had become both an orphan and the guardian of his teenaged brother. And in that moment, as John made his way up the stairs, he felt truly sorry for Mycroft. Because while John was the only person Sherlock claimed to love besides his parents, John couldn't recall Mycroft having anyone he could rely on.

Sherlock was exactly where Mycroft said he would be, in his room. But he wasn't playing his violin or talking to his skull or even moaning about how bored he was. He was simply sitting on his bed, staring out the window.

"Sherlock…" John started, but what he could say? _I'm sorry_ just didn't seem like it would help at all, nor would _I can't believed this happened_. Sherlock wasn't the type of hallow words. And John didn't bother asking what happened, how Sherlock's parents died. It wasn't important in that moment, Sherlock would tell him when the time came.

So John opted for action, walking across the room and sitting on Sherlock's bed before wrapping his arms around his boyfriend. Sherlock had never been one for displays of affection, deeming them pointless, but John knew that sometimes, a person needed the physical presence of another. Sure enough, he could feel Sherlock melting beneath his arms, sagging into John's embrace as the strength and resolve Sherlock had been putting forth all day deserted him.

John situated them so they were laying back on Sherlock's bed, allowing the taller teen to lay across his chest. He never said a word, simply keeping his arms tightly around Sherlock, and a hand gently carding through the grieving genius's curls.

If John heard quiet sniffles, he didn't mention it.

If the front of John's shirt became damp with tears and snot, he didn't complain.

If John could spy Mycroft in the doorway, quietly thanking John, he didn't alert Sherlock.

For now, Sherlock needed John to simply _be_ with him. And John was more than willing to grant Sherlock that.


End file.
